Deep Shadows
by musewars
Summary: Neville Longbottom is a collector.


Five bottle caps, a tag from a mattress cover, sixteen gum wrappers, and two hair ties.

All of it sits neatly placed in a wooden box, the one for his wand, which rests under his bed. It's the first thing Neville packs for Hogwarts every year. He supposes it makes him a collector of sorts, that box.

He thinks on that as he's preparing for the holiday. He glances as the polished rectangle of wood while routinely combing down his hair and getting dressed. The preparation is no more than habit now; a dance he performs. Every motion is choreographed, down to the green sweater he pulls over his head.

"That old thing?" his gram huffs with a frown as he joins her downstairs. He doesn't respond, nor does she say more as they head out of the door. The silence continues throughout their journey until the moment they've reached their destination and the nurse at the front desk spots them.

"Hello, Mrs. Longbottom. Hello, Neville," she calls cheerfully.

Neville does his best to give her a smile back. That smile and nod are part of the routine. He could make this trek with a blindfold wrapped on his head. Still he follows his gram up the stairs. The sign greets them as they walk into the room.

_Floor Four – Spell Damage_

Neville takes in a deep breathe as they enter. And there, sitting in a pair of matching chairs are the two they wish to see.

"Tuck in your shirt," his gram hisses as they step closer. Neville obeys, yet still she isn't satisfied. "Do wish you wouldn't wear that ratty thing."

He says nothing. The sweater is not really the best shirt he owns; not even close. Neville's had it for years, and by all the holes and patches it certainly shows. Yet this is the one he always wears.

Green always was his mum's favorite color.

[-]

When he was younger Neville Longbottom was a real talker.

It would shock most who know him now to learn that fact, yet it's true. He had once talked almost non-stop in endless streams of conversation. Yet his rambles were never directed towards just anyone.

There were only two people he wanted to hear what he had to say.

Neville once read of how talking was helpful in cases such as his parents', so that's what he did. He'd tell them everything. Like his fear of being a squib, and the day he found out he wasn't. He'd yammer about birthdays, Christmases and other holidays. He'd even brought his Hogwarts letter to show them. He'd talk and talk, those few hours filled with more words than he ever spoke outside of the hospital walls.

Yet now Neville lets his gram do the talking. He sits dead silent as she speaks the same nothings of small talk. She talks and he watches, staring into a blank pair of eyes which match his own.

There is so much more he wishes he could ask. Those questions which fill Neville now he can not make come from his mouth. He's never bothered to try. While he can talk and talk, all his questions will forever remain unanswered, prisoners within the unyielding mazes of minds long frozen.

[-]

The dance continues. Instinctually Neville holds out his hand as his mum makes the familiar timid motion with hers. And there she drops the empty wrapper from the gum he had given her at the start of their visit.

"Again?" his Gran asks wearily. She continues speaking – always the same words, the same tone – yet Neville no longer listens. Instead he looks towards his mum who does nothing more.

"Thanks, Mum," he whispers quietly. It wouldn't matter if he were to yell it; she wouldn't understand him either way. Still he stares, watching. There. Sure enough, he sees it in her eyes. The something he can't explain, the flicker of something only he seems able to see.

Or perhaps it is merely all in his head.

Neville looks down at the crumbled piece of paper in his hand. That's all it is, really; just an old piece of paper. Rubbish for the bin.

As a kid he used to make up stories in his head. Imagine his parents as off on grand adventures. Of how for reasons unknown they couldn't talk to him. To protect him, they had to pretend to not know who he was. That each item his mum gave him had a meaning, a purpose, and was part of a code.

Then he grew older.

She doesn't know who he is, or why he visits. His own mother - and father, too - will never recognize his face. She's never attempted to hug him, or give him a kiss on the cheek, or even shaken his hand. She's never asked him how his day went or about his life at Hogwarts. He's never even heard her say "I love you". He is a stranger to her, a boy with no name or meaning.

Yet that doesn't stop her from giving him the only thing she can.

She has already given him so much. They both have. And while he wishes they were still with him and would give anything and everything for just one moment with them really there, Neville knows what they would say. He knows they wouldn't trade their decisions for anything, because of what it meant.

And while it is small, the comfort that knowledge brings is so very vital. That is his reality; the one on which Neville chooses daily to focus. So he folds the wrapper carefully before putting it into his pocket.

Seventeen gum wrappers.


End file.
